


Plaything

by radiantdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, Other, Reader fic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiantdean/pseuds/radiantdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fulfilled tumblr prompts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plaything

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you're interested, my tumblr is radiantdean (:

You wake with a start, the slam of an old wooden door still ringing in your ears. Work boots clomping down creaking stairs is the next sound to reach you, and you try to get to your feet, only to find your ankles and wrists bound tightly with coarse rope. 

You can feel your heart beating faster as those heavy footsteps get closer, saliva soaking the gag that’s tied tightly across your mouth. All of your instincts are telling you to run, get out, do anything that’ll get you far away from here. Your efforts, however, prove futile. You’re just bound too tightly.

Suddenly, the footsteps stop. You look around, frantically searching for any kind of silhouette in the utter and complete darkness. With a click, a lightbulb hanging on a single piece of rope flickers to life above you. Its chain is still wrapped tightly in the hand of the man you can only deem to be your captor. 

A wicked smile contorts his face as he releases the chain, taking a step towards you as he twirls a gleaming, silver knife in his right hand. It’s only when he crouches down in front of you that you see his eyes are a deep, bottomless black.

“Well, it looks like we’ve gotten ourselves in a bit of a mess, haven’t we?” He says, his smile widening. It only serves to lessen the friendliness of his expression.

Your eyes are wide as you study his features, flicking over the brown stubble around his thick, pink lips and the slight wrinkles in his forehead and around the corners of his eyes. You struggle to make a sound, but the gag is effective, and only a sort of strangled groan escapes through the fabric.

The man’s expression shifts to one of disapproval as he raises his knife.

“Now, this won’t do, will it?” he says, slowly and deliberately slipping the knife between the fabric and your skin. The blade is cold against your cheek as he cuts the cloth in one swift motion, the gag falling away from your dry, chapped lips.

You cough, dropping your head as your chest heaves, your tongue snaking out to wet your lips. When you look back up, the man is still staring at you, his head cocked in an expression of bemused entertainment.

“Who are you?” you croak, your voice hoarse from a few hours, maybe a few days, or disuse.

“Even an amateur hunter like yourself must know,” the man says, his lips parting in another wicked grin, those black eyes never once leaving your face. He raises the knife again, trailing the tip along your cheek bone and down your neck, pressing just hard enough to make you wince.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he says.

Your eyes widen slightly, pieces clicking into place in your mind. Of course you know Dean Winchester. Every hunter knows that name. He was an absolutely lethal killing machine, and now as a demon? You have no idea what he’s capable of.

You try to scramble backwards, but you’re already pressed against a concrete wall, so your shoes flail helplessly against the dust covered floor. Dean smirks, his shoulders shaking as he lets out a single, quiet burst of laughter.

“There’s nowhere to run, you know,” he says casually, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “And even if there was, you wouldn’t be able to. Even if you were able to, you think I’d let you?”

Your eyes dart around the basement, looking for any way out. Just visible through the gloom is a single staircase. You can’t see where it goes, but if it leads upwards, it must be the right direction.

Dean lets out an exasperated sigh, pressing the flat edge of his knife against your cheek to return your attention to him.

“I told you there was nowhere to run,” he said, his voice lower, carrying a venom it hadn’t only moments ago. “And if you try? Well, this knife will end up somewhere in that pretty little chest of yours.”

Your heart immediately speeds up, and you’re sure Dean can hear it, just by the way his lips stretch into another grin. He’s thriving off of this, your anxiety, the way you want nothing more than to be as far away from him as possible.

“There’s only one way you’re getting out of here,” he continues after a stretch of silence, the knife now hanging by his side again. “And that’s when you choose to join me, as a… pet, if you will.”

You practically stop breathing, stunned by the words you’ve just heard.

“Excuse me?” you say, sounding a lot more confident than you actually are. “Join you? I hunt things like you!”

“Not very well,” Dean says. “If you were any good at your job, you wouldn’t be in this mess. But it’s alright, I can wait. I want you to come willingly. That’s all I’ll settle for.”

“Then you might as well run me through right now,” you say. “Because I’ll never be your pet.” You spit the last word, glaring at him as he straightens back up.

“Oh, no,” he says, walking backwards towards the stairs, the blackness of his eyes somehow managing to portray a sort of primal hunger. “No, it won’t be that easy, I’m afraid.”

And with that, he turns off the light and disappears up the stairs.

His visits are frequent. You’d suspect they were daily, but with the lack of light filtering into the cellar, you honestly have no idea what time it is, or where you are for that matter. He usually brings a sparse tray of food, sometimes a piece of bread, other times a couple slices of cheese. Always just enough to keep you sustained, but never satisfied.

He’s never without a weapon, either, and you often find yourself drawn to the silver of his blade, or the engravings on the barrel of his gun as he twirls his weapon of choice between his fingers. While he usually looks quite calm, sitting, standing, or crouching in front of you, his hands are always in motion, as if he’s just itching to wrap them around a neck, or thrust his blade deep into someone’s chest cavity.

You don’t speak much, honestly too intimidated to form many coherent thoughts, but you do a lot of watching, and a lot of listening.

Dean barely ever stops talking. While he doesn’t much bring up his original offer, it hangs in the air between the two of you. You’re both aware that it’s present, but you’re still absolutely refusing to budge, and Dean finds amusement in your stubbornness. 

One day, you can’t handle it anymore. The curiosity is eating you alive. Dean is pacing in front of you, only a couple steps in each direction, his right hand tightly gripping a dagger. He’s in the middle of talking when you speak up.

“What do you want with me?” you ask. He looks down at you, and for moment you swear that a look of surprise actually clouds his features before it’s replaced with his usual cocky, intimidating grin.

“What do I want with you? I thought we made that clear the first time we met,” he says, crouching down in front of you.

“Yes,” you say, trying to keep the exasperation from creeping into the edges of your voice. “Yes, I know what you want, but why me?”

Dean pauses while he thinks about that, absentmindedly chewing on the inside of his bottom lip.

“Convenience,” he says after a while, turning his eyes back to you. “You were there. You were helpless. You were the perfect target.”

You feel almost… disappointed. Could you actually be ashamed that Dean Winchester doesn’t find you special? You try to bite down the feeling, but it has evidently already made an appearance on your face, as Dean starts to chuckle.

“Did you seriously think I chose you? Spent my time plotting ways to come after you, make you mine? I’m sorry to break the news to you, but you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He stands then, and the smile he gives you is patronizing, pitying. You watch him, your eyes glued to those shining, black ones. Finally, when you tear your eyes away, you can’t help but drag them down the rest of his body, taking in his built shoulders, his muscular chest, and the way his jeans fit him just right. You swallow, trying to clear your thoughts.

Dean chuckles, still looking down at you, before he disappears up the stairs, leaving you in complete darkness once again.

You have to wait longer for his next visit than usual, and you start to get anxious. Could he have left you here? Decided you weren’t worth it? These thoughts chase themselves around your brain until finally you hear those heavy footsteps on the stairs.

You blink a few times as the light flickers to life above you, revealing the familiar frame Dean Winchester, who stands just below the swinging bulb as usual. He’s not carrying a weapon today, no knife or gun, and for once he sits down in front of you, actually putting himself on the same level for the first time.

The silence that stretches between the two of you is long, and several times you think of breaking it, even opening your mouth before second guessing yourself and closing it again. Dean’s eyes are almost completely locked on yours, their attention only turning elsewhere at the smallest sound of a board creaking upstairs, or when you shift position slightly.

Finally, you take a deep breath and open your mouth to speak, but Dean beats you to it. 

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asks, his hands resting on the top of his knees as he watches you, his head tilted slightly to the side.

“Offer?” you repeat, slightly confused. “You mean to join you? Do you actually think I’d do that?”

Dean shrugs, and he looks absolutely unbothered by your vehement rejection.

“I just thought you might have changed your mind,” he said. “I mean, after the way you looked at me the other day, you can’t exactly call me crazy for thinking so.”

You can feel a blush rising up your neck and taking up residence in your cheeks as you open and close your mouth, searching for words. Your sudden agitation is obviously amusing, as Dean’s face breaks into a grin.

“I did not look at you in any sort of way,” you finally say, meeting his eyes again.

Dean doesn’t reply. Instead, he moves forward, rapidly closing the distance between you. Your breathing picks up as your immediate instinct is that he’s coming closer to hurt you, but you have to consciously remind yourself he didn’t bring any sort of weapon today.

Before you know it, Dean’s face is inches from yours. You can count every freckle that sprinkles his cheeks and nose, a feature you never noticed he had before. But you are instantly and completely drawn to those bottomless eyes of his, the black even more intimidating this up close. 

And then he smiles. And it’s wicked and calculating, scheming and lethal, but it may just be the hottest and most attractive smile you’ve ever seen. And then his lips are pressed against yours, his hand reaching up to tangle its fingers almost painfully in your dirty, knotted hair. The kiss is searing hot, carrying more passion than you ever thought it could. Your lips are working against his of their own accord as your mind has shut down. Your breathing has all but stopped, and your heart is pumping a thousand beats a minute.

It’s much too soon, in your opinion, that Dean pulls away. You open your eyes, your lips still slightly parted, to see him smiling at you. He leans forward, and for a second you think he’s going to kiss you again, but he bypasses your lips, his mouth ending up directly next to your ear.

“Just think about my offer,” he whispers. “I’m sure it would do you well to reconsider.”


End file.
